


untouchable (like a distant diamond sky)

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Romance, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Sneaking Around, thigh-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Legolas and Gimli take advantage of the darkness while everyone else sleeps.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 27
Kudos: 197





	untouchable (like a distant diamond sky)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeHeerKonijn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/gifts).



> Oh man, I have NOT been writing well since being evacuated for the fires but I had a breakthrough last night so here's to hoping there's more where this came from!!! also its not betaed, sorry everyone. 
> 
> This is sort of a song fic for Taylor Swift's untouchable, sort of a messy combination of movie and book canon, sort of an excuse to write thighfucking for Deheer, who is wonderful and who has been instrumental in keeping me sane this week because apparently gigolas porn is integral to my mental health!!! thank you so much friend I hope you like this <3

It’s been entirely too long since Legolas has gotten to _truly_ touch Gimli. 

They collide in charged and idle passing plenty. Their arms brush as they hike through the thorny brush and desolate quarries on their path to Hollin, Legolas’s dyed cotton tunic snagging over the finely hewn details of Gimli’s armor. They grip hands as to steady themselves as they slip over slick, narrow outcroppings of sharp rock as the glittering river rages below in tossing white rapids, eyes meeting like flashes of lightning in the dark, brimming with things unsaid. On the nights when the Fellowship risks lighting a fire, they sit side by side around it, knees pressed together as the hobbits bustle about and try their hardest to cook a decent meal. Sometimes, Legolas will dare to lean towards Gimli, drawn in by the flicker of the fire reflecting within the red hues in his beard. Other times, Gimli’s head will drift ever so briefly to his shoulder, breath hot where it sweeps his pulse, leaving him gasping, wanting more. 

However, It’s been _weeks_ since they were able to slip away and _have_ one another properly, and Legolas might be going a bit mad. 

Upon leaving Rivendell, the land was mild and tame. They could drift behind the pack and steal fumbling kisses behind shrubs or rock formations, or race ahead with little threat of danger, slipping off into wooded alcoves and putting one another up against the slender silver birch trunks to kiss and slip secret hands beneath clothing. It was December but the snow was not falling so close to magic of an Elven city, and Legolas, at least, did not feel pressed for time when he tilted his head back to gaze up at still-warm gold of the sun while Gimli rutted to finish against his thigh, hands spread wide upon his bare stomach beneath rucked open laces. The journey still felt almost _leisurely,_ then: an excuse to escape from the confines of his duties in pursuit of his new, and first, love. Gimli has been equally jovial: they both possessed families which would not approve of such a union, and the prospect of an adventure to take them across Arda and away from such trappings felt _convenient,_ if not perilous. 

Of course, as the Misty Mountains loomed closer and the trail narrowed until it disappeared, the temperature also dropped, each day now saddled with freezing, bitter winds that undo Legolas’s braids and chap the skin of his hands in such a way it has never been chapped before in all his long life. The trees give way to snarled, thorny thicket, and the earth becomes hard and cracked and uneven. It’s becoming increasingly clear that this journey is far more serious than either Legolas or Gimli anticipated, when they offered to accompany the Ringbearer to Mordor. 

They still manage to be the most cheerful members of their party, in spite of the treacherous landscape. Legolas suspects being in love will _do_ that, really, and that it would take the whole of the world ending in fire to dampen his spirits in any lasting way. No cloud can eclipse his sun, when Gimli is by his side. 

Still. He would _vastly_ prefer to _have_ him every night again. He so dearly misses the taste of his spit, the fire-hot spread of his skin, the way the hair on his chest rubs his own nipples raw when they’d grind together breathlessly beneath the spill of the moon in Rivendell. He misses the way Gimli would tease him open with oiled fingers, for so long Legolas would be trembling and close to the edge by the time he finally pushed in, breaching his body like a ship slicing through the tide. 

Legolas mournfully shoves a stick into a hole he’s been digging in the ground, and huffs out a plume of breath into the frigid night air. He’s keeping watch, as he often does, since he is the only one of them who does not require sleep. It’s a bitterly cold evening and Gimli keeps shivering under his skins, and Legolas can barely stand knowing he’s cold and that he is not there to warm him, to flatten himself to the curve of his spine and hold him close and press kisses to the back of his neck through the wild wreck of his curls, whispering things he does not understand but murmurs at sweetly all the same. Legolas inhales sharply. He loves Gimli so. But he also _wants_ him. It’s not _fair_ his love should lie so close, and still he cannot hold him. 

He can at least keep him warm in his sleep, Legolas decides. So, he sits up with a sigh and unhooks his own hooded cloak, picking his way light-footedly through the hobbits to the heap of Gimli’s sleeping form. As he passes Boromir, he notices that he is lying awake, eyes glittering as he blinks in the starlight. “Oh,” Legolas whispers, tilting his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d—”

“You didn’t, Master Elf, fret not,” Boromir sighs, scrubbing a hand over his perpetually morose face. “I sometimes struggle to sleep, even when all is quiet and still. There are storms inside that cannot be silenced.” 

“I hope that you may you wether those storms bravely in your dreams, then,” Legolas says crisply, offering him a sympathetic nod. 

“Not tonight,” he offers, sitting up with a self-deprecating smile. “You may rest. I’ll take the watch. I can tell when it’s hopeless, and I’d rather look out for danger that gaze up at the stars.” 

Legolas is surprised, but delighted. He, personally, would much rather stargaze given the opportunity. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I may not sleep, but I do grow weary in the chill of the night,” he admits, nodding in gratitude. “Good night, Boromir.” 

Boromir squeezes his shoulders in broad palms and then leaves him, wandering past their encampment into the darkness to deposit himself on a vast, wide stone overlooking the craggy grey stretch of land spanning from here to the base of the mountains. And just like that, Legolas is alone. And more importantly, out of earshot, away from the only other waking person in their party. 

He finds Gimli easily in the night, as if he were drawn there with a hook in his gut and reeled in, tugged magnetically. He does not have ulterior motives, or harbor hope. It’s a very cold night and their friends surround them, breathing softly from their bed rolls, breath visible in the cold. All he wants—well. He wants many things. But all he _hopes_ for is to warm Gimli up. To wait out the remainder of the night with his face pressed to his thick auburn hair, inhaling the smell of their last fire where it clings like a ghost. He kneels down with a long exhale, heart aching as he arranges himself gingerly behind Gimli, his cloak tossed over them both, his arm winding about his thick waist. 

“Hmm,” Gimli murmurs, the vibration of his voice making Legolas shudder and drag himself closer, not even _caring_ they’re surrounded. Boromir is the only one awake, and he’s off in the shadows. He cares not where Legolas’s lips are, so, he steals a kiss, presses it to the top Gimli’s head as he curls around him possessively. “Am I lost to a kind dream, or is the most lovely elf in all the Green Wood bestowing me with his company?” Gimli rumbles, very quietly. 

It sends needles into Legolas’s gut, and he gasps, flexing his arm and eliciting a soft huff of sleepy air. “You are not dreaming,” he whispers against the shell of Gimli’s ear. “Boromir relieved me of my watch. And everyone else is sleeping. And I have perhaps grown rather reckless and wild in your absence,” he admits.

Gimli smooths a rough, lovely hand up his forearm. “My absence? I have been right here all along.” 

“I mean—you know what I mean,” he bites out, the tension leaving his body as he sags into the hard rock beneath them, hand moving to more modestly cup Gimli’s shoulder, lest he get carried away. “There are things I miss from you.” 

Gimli sighs low and long. “Aye,” he croaks after a thick swallow. “I do know.” They lie there very quietly, the night too quiet even for cicada songs. It would be so easy to wake members of their party…to rustle too loudly, to gasp, to groan. Legolas _knows_ all this, but his hands are as hungry as the rest of him, and Gimli’s skin is so close and so _hot,_ bleeding through the rough linen of his tunic. “I am quite stiff,” Gimli eventually whispers, always very clever with his double entendre, knowing exactly what to say to twist deep in Legolas’s gut and make him squirm. It is too dark to see his smile even if they were facing each other, but Legolas can imagine it: the clever, complacent curl of it on his lovely full mouth. “You could dig an elbow into my lower back, if you’re so eager to touch. I might as well put those brilliant hands to work. It’s the only fair exchange for the sin of waking a dwarf in the dead of night,” he murmurs. 

Legolas is grateful for a task, so he does as he’s told. After all, this way he has a practical answer should anyone catch him and _ask_ what he’s doing there, close enough to kiss the back of Gimli’s neck, to bury his face in the helmet-crushed curls at the top of his head. 

There is a shift, and an exhalation. Gimli hums gently as Legolas digs his thumbs into the thick, knotted cords of muscle framing his spine, and even though it really _is_ only a backrub, it makes Legolas’s breath catch all the same. He feels sweat begin to prickle in his palms, and he kneads with as much prudence and strength as he can muster. “How is that?” 

Gimli reaches back and briefly cuffs Legolas’s neck with one of those great, calloused hands. “Very good, my love,” he breathes, and Legolas’s gut twists up at the term of endearment, uttered out here for the stars to witness, only a stone’s throw away from the rest of the fellowship. “Your fingers are always poetry.” 

A breath shudders out of Legolas, and he catches himself digging his nails in, making fists in the fabric of Gimli’s embroidered tunic as his mind gives way to a hot, cloying fog. “May I touch you under it?” he begs. 

The laugh that rumbles through Gimli’s body draws him closer, makes him fit his knees into the bend of Gimli’s legs so that they might nestle together as best they can. “That depends upon what you’re planning on doing under there.” 

“Bringing relief to your sore back,” he promises, failing to wait for an answer as he thumbs beneath the fabric to find perspiration sticky skin. He shifts the fine, soft hair with his thumbs, and _ah,_ it _aches_ —waiting and denying himself and settling for scraps when he _could_ have a full rich meal were circumstances different—it is a _physical_ pain. His hands begin to shake as he rubs at Gimli’s bare skin, unable to stop thinking about how that skin _tastes,_ the salt and spice of it, the way the memory clings to his hands and face hours later. He inhales raggedly. “That is my only _plan._ You cannot fault me for what I dream of, however.” 

“Oh?” Gimli murmurs, settling back, pressing himself into the desperate, clawing span of Legolas’s fingers. “And what is it you dream?” 

Legolas is hard, now. He’s not even sure how it happened, how _fast_ it happened, he only knows it is the truth, and now he can hardly breathe. He shifts his hips forward shamefully, letting Gimli feel, and the ensuing choked rumble is enough to make him twitch in the trapped between the drag of their bodies. “You know what I dream,” he whispers, mouth pressed to Gimli’s ear as he curls more tightly around him. “I dream of what it feels like inside you. Of how wonderful it was to have you by daylight, whenever I wanted.” 

“You wicked elf,” Gimli may groan. It’s hard to know what it is exactly he says, because the blood is rushing in Legolas’s ears, a madness overtaking him as he continues to touch, grip becoming rougher, more possessive, more _raw_ as his yearning collapses into something untempered and wild. “Take it out,” he demands then, turning his head so his whiskers scrape against Legolas’s open, panting mouth. “Take that pretty cock out.” 

It is easier, to be ordered to transgress. That way its out of his hands, it was not a decision _he_ made, it was not _his_ want that crossed the line. So, relief floods his body. Legolas whimpers breathlessly as he complies, peeling back and letting go of Gimli’s fever hot body long enough to undo the drawstring of his trousers and ruck them down about his quaking thighs, cock hard and leaking as he curls tremulous fingers around the length, ears trained on the sound of Gimli grappling with his own flies, and presumably, his _own_ cock. 

The mere _thought_ makes Legolas’s mouth water. He sweeps his tongue over his lips and trembles closer, pressing his cock into the humid crease of Gimli’s ass and rutting there in stilted bucks, clinging to Gimli with his breath held. Gimli, however, cannot stay silent. He presses closer, cursing in _khuzdul_ under his breath, choking out a groan before clapping a broad palm over his mouth. Someone else stirs in the dark to their left and they both freeze, locked together, Legolas’s cock throbbing where it’s pressed into the maddening heat of Gimli’s skin. He can feel their dual heartbeats thrumming together there in that place where they’re joined, fast and terrified like the two streams rushing side by side, swollen with snow-melt. 

The sound fades, the threat dissipating into silence. Legolas lets out an explosive breath and then, Gimli takes control, as he often does. “You may touch,” he says quietly. “But control yourself. We must not wake them.” 

Legolas nods, softening in the commanding certainty of Gimli’s grip as he reaches for Legolas’s wrist, palming down his taut forearm and guiding his hand around and down, so it can spread upon the swell of his gut, where the skin is drawn tight over the curve of his belly. It’s a grounding place, here where he can feel Gimli’s torso expand with each breath, skin hot and smooth beneath his fingers. “Put it between my thighs,” Gimli growls after a few labored breaths, shifting his hips back. “I can’t keep still enough with you there—I have dreams too, you know. I long for the ache of you filling me too. And we cannot _both_ be weak.” 

Legolas bites back a reflexive groan at the friction, at the heady thrill of bring called _weak_ when he knows—he _knows_ he is not. When he knows Gimli does not see him as such. Many times Gimli has rubbed his palms up and down Legolas’s tense arms as he holds him up, sinew tight, muscle straining while Gimli praises, _so strong. My Elf, Amrâlimę._ To call him otherwise is teasing, and coy, and therefore it is _devastating,_ because Gimli is _trying_ to drive him mad. To dig heels into the places where it is bruised and urge him forward. They are both mad with starvation, with denial, and even though it pains Legolas, it is a comfort to know he is not alone all the same. “Is this what you wish?” he asks, taking himself in hand and adjusting so that he can push his cock between Gimli’s thick thighs, where the tight planes of muscle twitch and hold fast. 

“Ah,” Gimli groans, settling back into the cradle of Legolas’s hips, and reaching down to tease the dripping tip of his cock with rough fingers where it peeps out from beneath his own shorter, but thicker cock. “What I _wish_ is for a vast bed in the halls of Erebor, and your lovely voice echoing off the stone walls while I swallow you down.” 

Legolas silences his reflexive whimper, instead just letting his cock twitch between the tight heat of Gimli’s thigh as he fucks in and out, nudging up between the heavy weight of his balls, pressing into the lovely slick pressure of his fingers. “I miss crying out for you,” he murmurs, breath hot as it huffs out against Gimli’s rapid pulse. “I miss saying your name when I come.” 

“Oh, my darling,” Gimli huffs, tightening his thighs, squeezing Legolas with each desperate thrust. “You may say my name tonight. Whisper it against my ear, when you finish, for only me to hear and treasure. Please.” 

“Ah—I would—I’d scream myself hoarse, if I could. I’d— _fuck,_ Gimli,” Legolas gasps, hips stuttering, hand uncementing it from Gimli’s stomach to scrub lower into the thick, damp curls which lead from his navel to his cock. The heat of his shaft nearly burns his palm as he curls his fingers around it, astounded by the thickness at the same time it is a familiar, comforting sensation. His fist being filled, searing and lovely as Gimli gasps and fucks hungrily into the pressure. “I miss the taste,” Legolas admits, sliding his fingers around in the mess of precum beading from the slit. “I miss it all.” 

“Poor hungry thing,” Gimli chides in a hush, reaching down and smearing his own blunt fingertips through the slick before bring them up and pressing them to Legolas’s lips. “Will this satisfy my love until I can choke him blind and drooling again?” 

And Oh— _oh._ Legolas greedily sucks Gimli’s fingers into his mouth down to the second knuckle, tongue swirling over whatever he can reach, licking the salt and bitter bite of him up as his hips work and snap and that is all it takes to push him over the precipice and into the trembling rage of glittering darkness. He comes there between Gimli’s broad hairy thighs, painting him in white as he stifles his own ripped groan in the thick of his hair, gasping and shuddering. _“Gimli—_ Gimli,” he breathes as his fingers slide from the swollen ring of his lips. It sounds like a prayer in the night. A devotional. 

Gimli fucks his fist through the whole of it, riding each trembling wave of motion as quietly and subtly as he can. Then, when Legolas goes slack and gasping behind him, he rubs his hand through the slick of come he left and coats his own cock in it, murmuring low in his throat. “So warm—like fire,” he gasps, and Legolas manages to keep touching even in his stupor, even as the stars eclipse the sky of his vision and he’s lost to pulsing, incandescent light. His and Gimli’s hands side and rub together in the slippery, searing mess of his finish, fingers tangling as they shift up and down that thick shaft and then, so suddenly, he is locking up and following Legolas as he spills over both of their hands. 

Finally, they do not have to fight for stillness. They can merely lie in it, sucking vast trembling breaths in tandem, Legolas’s arms looped around Gimli’s thick, sturdy waist, his gasping mouth hidden in auburn curls. “It seems absurd,” Gimli murmurs as he shifts in his arms so they they are facing one another, knees notched, “That I cannot kiss you after all that.” 

And Legolas's is done with absurdity, or else he is neck deep in it, lost to its tide. He cannot care. All he can do is pitch forward messily, neck bent at a sharp angle as he catches Gimli’s full, panting mouth with his own before licking inside greedily. He tastes like fire, like salt, like smoke. He tastes like a version of the world perhaps in their future, when they can be together, _have_ each other with out lies and silence and stolen moment. Legolas palms through his beard, makes a fist in the thick bristly curls and bites his lower lip hard enough Gimli wrenches away, huffing in laughter at the way it smarts. “You really are a wicked, brilliant thing, do you know that? And I—I cannot resist it.” 

“ _Don’t_ resist it,” Legolas begs in a whisper. “Meet me in the dark, here again, as we met tonight. I don’t know how many more days without you I can bear.” 

“Amrâlimę,” Gimli sighs, twisting a fistful of Legolas’s cornsilk blonde hair around a thick wrist, and pulling gently as he nips at his lips. “Even if we do not have this every night, I am yours, always and forever, in every moment from here until the end of all of Arda.” 

Legolas sighs, and kisses him, and curls around him with his arms tight and possessive abreast the barrel of his chest. “And I, too, am yours,” he confesses. And he _knows_ he should kiss Gimli goodnight, _good-bye,_ and make a bed-roll nearby but not _here,_ under the same blanket. That will look far less suspicious when their company wakes. But still, he cannot make himself do such a thing, when he has all he has ever wanted here in his arms. So, he hikes his trousers up around his hips and ties them again while Gimli does the same after wiping himself off. And then, he stubbornly remains, face pressed to the thick curls tucked and braided behind Gimli’s ear. They drift together, in and out of sleep, but as Gimli falls deeper, Legolas remains awake as he must, as he _always_ does. Eventually the sun will creep up over the horizon and spill out here onto the land, and he will roll away _then._ He will feign innocence _then._

But for now, he sucks in lungfuls of wood-smoke and ale and spice and sweat, threads his fingers through his love’s, and closes his eyes to savor every last breath of darkness they may share. 


End file.
